


The Numbani Job

by FallingTowers



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: F/F, This is just smut lmao
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-14
Updated: 2016-08-14
Packaged: 2018-08-08 19:25:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,769
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7770082
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FallingTowers/pseuds/FallingTowers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tracer goes for another kiss, and her hands run greedily over Widowmaker's body, as if attempting to memorize every curve. Because it's been years and everyone thought Amélie had been killed and the thing she's become is cold as a corpse and it's all gone wrong, but it's Amélie, it's Amélie, and Tracer feels a mushroom cloud of old desire and sadness blooming in her chest.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Numbani Job

**Author's Note:**

  * For [smokeopossum](https://archiveofourown.org/users/smokeopossum/gifts).



Pan over the landscape, like an aerial shot:

 

The wind rustles through the the hardy grass of the savannah, like fingers through hair. Acacias spread jubilantly, vibrant green against the yellow ground. Here and there, villages dot the countryside – oases of white stone and hard light. A man drives a cart down a road, the wheels replaced with anti-grav hover pads. The cart is drawn by a mule. The more things change, the more they stay the same.

 

Further along, the suburbs begin. Row upon row of neatly ordered houses, a complex fractal when viewed from above. White, new, _clean._ And then, after the suburbs: the city proper.

 

Numbani is a paradise, they say. It evokes a fairytale castle viewed from afar, high-rise buildings overlooking the surrounding grasslands. The architecture is neo-African, modern without turning its back on the people's heritage. The crime rate here is nearly zero, as is homelessness. Its streets bustle with traffic and commerce, life and noise and color.

 

Today, something unwelcome has entered Numbani.

 

At twenty minutes to noon, there was an explosion at the Grand Plaza. Concentric circles of red brick are now disrupted by a giant, ragged crater, still smoking. There's not yet a toll for how many are dead or injured, but there will be. The people, the tourists and shoppers and businesspeople out for lunch, have all fled; the Numbani police force has cordoned off the area and is hard at work keeping out the press and the rubberneckers.

 

The Grand Plaza was a red herring.

 

So was the First Bank of Numbani, which mercifully is closed on Sundays, and whose two-story glass-front façade blew out only seconds later, showering the street in jagged shards like crystal rain.

 

The real action took place further downtown, at the Numbani Heritage Museum, currently housing the world's largest exhibition of Overwatch artifacts and paraphernalia. Immediately following the explosions, Talon operatives were to enter the museum, neutralize any resistance, and retrieve the power gauntlet of Doomfist, one of the exhibition's centerpieces. It was a small operation, only two agents, focused on maneuverability and efficiency; go in, secure the objective, get out. Quick and clean, while the Numbani authorities were distracted by the detonations.

 

This did not happen, thanks to Overwatch.

 

Two weeks earlier, Athena, the AI of the Overwatch computer system, had managed to intercept and decrypt a Talon transmission. The transmission detailed the operatives involved, the objective of the mission, and the timeframe. Allowing Doomfist's gauntlet to fall into Talon's hands was unthinkable; there was nothing to do but mobilize and attempt to thwart their plans. Unfortunately, Overwatch isn't currently operating at optimum capacity.

 

For one thing, Overwatch currently has only two active agents: Winston, who initiated the recall only days ago, and Lena Oxton, alias Tracer, who was the first to respond and report to the Watchpoint at Gibraltar. Second, any Overwatch activity is still illegal under the PETRAS act, and Winston's attempts to radio in the threat anonymously were treated like prank calls by the Numbani authorities.

 

Third, the intercepted transmission had contained no information about the bombings.

 

Winston and Tracer caught the Talon operatives unaware. They had the upper hand – until the ground shook with the blast and they turned around, aghast, to see the smoke rise and hear the sirens carried on the wind. In a heartbeat, the spider, codename Widowmaker, had propelled herself off the edge of the roof they were on using her grappling hook and taken Winston with her. A split second later, Tracer only barely had the presence of mind to blink out of the way of a hail of bullets from Reaper's guns.

 

Winston and Widowmaker plummeted twelve stories and crashed through the glass ceiling of the Heritage Museum. Luckily for him, Winston is made of sturdy stuff, and wearing standard-issue hyper-stabilizing Overwatch body armor to boot. Reaper came after, in a cloud of noxious black smoke; Tracer made her way down to ground level as quickly as she could, blinking from foothold to foothold.

 

Thankfully, no civilians were harmed during the shootout in the museum. And they did manage to prevent Talon from getting the gauntlet, even if it looked bad there for a while. It might all have gone wrong if it weren't for that kid – the one who actually used the gauntlet! Tracer thinks it's a wonder her eyes didn't pop out of her skull at that! If ever there was a kid who was hero material, it's him.

 

Tracer's got other things on her mind now, though. Like finding Winston. Like chasing after Reaper.

 

Like talking to Amélie.

 

She doesn't think Winston got a good look at the spider's face, only that many-eyed visor. But Tracer did see her up close. Blue as a corpse, she was, and no pity in her eyes, but if that wasn't Amélie Lacroix in the flesh, Tracer'll eat her shoes.

 

Tracer's grip tightens on her guns until she feels her hands shake.

 

She remembers the Overwatch dossier on Amélie. She remembers the personnel file on Gérard. _Deceased,_ that one said. There was really no doubt. Angela performed the autopsy. But as for Amélie… _Missing (presumed deceased)._ A likely enough presumption.

 

A false one.

 

"Winston, report!" she shouts, hopes Winston hasn't lost his communicator. "Where are you?"

 

After a few moments, Winston's voice crackles in her ear. He sounds out of breath. "Southbound along Unity Way," he says. "I've got eyes on Reaper. I don't know where Widowmaker is."

 

"I'm on my way," Tracer says.

Traffic has slowed to a crawl outside the museum, probably disrupted by the explosions and perhaps by Winston's chase. He never was one for subtlety when he got into the fray. Tracer hears distant gunfire, heads in that direction. There are people everywhere along the sidewalk – terrorist attacks or no, life goes on in Numbani. Perhaps some of them are visitors to the exhibit, and they recognize her; others just see her guns and hurriedly get out of the way. But they are a throng nonetheless, and Tracer has to fight her way through them.

 

"'Scuse me! Comin' through! Sorry, ma'am!"

 

She spots Winston. He doesn't see her as he fires off his jump pack, high-impact anti-grav boosters catapulting him through the air. The take-off blast agitates the residual cloud of black smoke swirling along the ground. Winston disappears onto the rooftops; Tracer hears the crash as he lands, and she hangs a left into a deserted alleyway, hoping to intercept Reaper on the other side.

 

She's turned two corners and is far away from the bustle of the major streets when there's a sharp _ping_ and she looks down to see that a chip has just been knocking out of the pavement only inches from her feet. She ducks into a doorway for cover while she gets her bearings, hoping to peek out and try to spot the shooter's perch. That's when she notices the thing on the wall opposite, like a spider clinging, but the spider's body is a glass canister and a bullet shatters it before her eyes and it spews purple smoke all over her and before she knows it she's got a lungful of the stuff.

 

Tracer coughs raggedly, her head swimming. Her vision goes double, so she closes her eyes, and she fingers the controls to her chronal accelerator on the grip of her gun, but her hands are going numb now too and she sinks to her knees, coughing and gagging.

 

The gas disperses quickly in the open air, and after a while – how long, Tracer cannot gauge – there are leisurely footsteps. Tracer opens her eyes, and though her vision still isn't quite working right she can make out the colors just fine. Purple and black and a pale blue face. A spider, in nocturnal hues. Widowmaker looks out of place under the Numbani sun.

 

"A non-lethal dosage," says Widowmaker's cold voice, "just for you, _chérie._ You do not need to thank me." Widowmaker's voice is also Amélie's voice, but devoid of warmth. When she laughs, it is mocking and cruel.

 

Tracer struggles to her feet, though she has to lean against the doorway with her shoulder to stay upright. Her fingers still lack strength, but she manages to keep a loose grip on one of her guns; the other clatters uselessly to the ground. Widowmaker smiles when Tracer trains the remaining gun on her.

 

"Oh, _chérie,_ shoot me if you can. But I saw you breathe the gas in. You must have gotten quite a lungful, no?" Widowmaker steps forward; Tracer attempts to squeeze the trigger but cannot. She doesn't know if she lacks the physical strength to shoot Amélie, or the mental. Widowmaker puts one finger on the barrel of the gun and puts gentle pressure on it. Tracer watches hopelessly as the gun tumbles from her nerveless fingers.

 

Widowmaker still has her rifle, but she holds it casually, pointing at the ground. Tracer draws a ragged breath, then winces in pain as she coughs. Her voice is hoarse when she finally manages to say, "Amélie." She gasps for breath again, and then: "Amélie, I thought you were dead. We all thought you were dead."

 

"Nobody has called me that in a long time, _chérie,"_ Widowmaker says. She doesn't seem fazed to be called by her old name. "How… familiar of you. I recall you used to call me Mrs Lacroix. Whatever happened to that polite young girl?"

 

"What happened to _you?"_ Tracer counters. Her vision is beginning to clear, now. She can hardly bear to look into Amélie's miscolored face. She can't force herself to look away.

 

Widowmaker chuckles. "Do you mean my, ah, 'divorce?' Or what happened after? Come now, _chérie,_ let us not dwell on the past. You have got enough on your plate in the present. I knew it would be easy to trap you in my web, but I never anticipated just how easy. You're out of practice, Agent."

 

"Fuck you," Tracer says. It's the best she can come up with, right now. The poison burns in her throat and tears sting in her eyes.

 

Widowmaker tuts. "You certainly have become crass, Lena," she says. Her grin is all malice. "Before, you would not have worded the request so plainly. Even at that Overwatch party where you got drunk on wine and called me 'madame' and thought you were being subtle."

 

Tracer breaks. With a wounded howl, she throws herself at Widowmaker. Her head is still swimming, and her vision is blurred with tears, but the weight of her body throws Widowmaker off-balance, and they go tumbling into the opposite wall. The rifle clatters to the ground. _"Salope!"_ Widowmaker barks angrily, and she pushes Tracer back so she goes stumbling.

 

"Y-you bitch!" Tracer sobs, astounding herself by breaking into tears. _"You_ killed Gérard, _you_ did it, it was all _you!_ And all those people today, in the plaza—you heartless _bitch!"_ She throws herself at Widowmaker again, blindly throwing a punch, heedless of the fact that Widowmaker currently has a gun and she doesn't. Her fist connects with Widowmaker's midriff, but doesn't succeed in winding her, and Widowmaker grabs Tracer's wrist in a grip that makes her squeal in pain, and twists her arm, forcing her up against the wall.

 

"Let me go!" Tracer yells, trying to choke down her sobs, hating how _weak_ Widowmaker has made her look.

 

Widowmaker hushes her gently. She's got Tracer's other hand pinned up against the wall by the wrist. "Hush, _ma chérie._ Trying to make me lower my guard with tears – this tactic, it is too underhanded for an Overwatch agent."

 

"Shut up," Tracer sneers. "Stop playing around. Tell me the truth, Amélie! You killed Gérard. Didn't you?"

 

"Stellar detective work, little girl," Widowmaker hisses in her ear. Her breath is eerily cold. "Clearly you're of the same stock as your countryman, Sherlock Holmes."

 

Tracer struggles weakly, but she's at Widowmaker's mercy. She sobs and the sob makes a sound like a hiccup. "Sherlock Holmes wasn't a real person," she says in a voice like a sulky child.

 

Widowmaker surprises her by laughing again, and though Tracer can still feel her cold breath in her ear, the laughter is rich and full, almost approximating the warmth Tracer remembers in Amélie Lacroix. "No, _chérie,_ he was not. If he was, perhaps you could have enlisted him in your efforts. Overwatch could have used an analytical mind like his. As it is, you seem to be… floundering."

 

"What do you mean?" Tracer asks breathlessly.

 

"For example," Widowmaker says in her ear, "did neither you nor the ape ever question how such a sensitive Talon transmission was so easily intercepted? Not to mention its encryption broken?"

 

Tracer goes cold all over. Talon knew – they knew all along that Overwatch knew! "W-what—how—" she stammers, then yelps as Widowmaker twists her arm harder.

 

"Come now, _chérie,"_ Widowmaker whispers, her lips brushing the cup of Tracer's ear. Tracer shivers. "I cannot just give you all the answers. Where is that quick wit? Where is that talent for detective work?"

 

"Talon… Talon wanted us to intercept the transmission…" Tracer begins, tentatively. Widowmaker hums encouragingly in her ear. Tracer begins to see it. "No… it was a decoy message. That was why it didn't contain all the information. That's why it didn't mention the bombings. You wanted to draw us here. But—you're not trying to kill me, or I'd be dead. So why?"

 

"For this," Widowmaker says, and Tracer stiffens as she feels soft lips against the back of her neck. Widowmaker trails kisses along the side of her neck and up towards her ear, and Tracer makes a strangled sound in her throat. She flails behind her with her free hand, but only manages to find the curve of Widowmaker's hip, and as teeth sink into her earlobe, Tracer quivers and digs her nails into the soft flesh.

 

Widowmaker inhales sharply, and Tracer whimpers as she feels the sniper's crotch press against her ass. _"You_ sent the message," Tracer manages. "Not Talon, _you."_

Widowmaker hums, her free hand ranging up Tracer's side, over her flat stomach and up, stopping just shy of the bottom of Tracer's chest. "Sherlock Holmes," Widowmaker breathes, and Tracer can't stop herself from laughing, as much a sound of disbelief as it is one of mirth.

 

Years ago, before Talon and Gérard's death and everything that's happened since, this would've been a wet dream come true. In fact, Tracer's fantasies about Amélie Lacroix have not stopped since her disappearance, but they've become less frequent, and always tempered by an empty, aching feeling afterwards. And now… this.

 

Tracer heaves a shaky sigh, and presses her ass back against Amélie Lacroix, missing, presumed deceased.

 

Widowmaker hums. She sounds pleased. "If I let go of your wrist, will you be a good little girl?" Her cold lips languidly trace Tracer's jawline and make her shiver.

 

Tracer nods slowly. "An' don't call me 'little girl,'" she breathes. "It's creepy."

 

Widowmaker chuckles. She lets go of Tracer's wrist, and turns her around so her shoulderblades knock against the stone wall of the alley. Tracer is still woozy from the poison, but her knees go weak for a completely different reason when Widowmaker presses cold, soft lips against hers. When the kiss finally breaks, Widowmaker says, "Didn't you know? Spiders are supposed to be creepy, _chérie."_

Tracer goes for another kiss, and her hands run greedily over Widowmaker's body, as if attempting to memorize every curve. Because it's been years and everyone thought Amélie had been killed and the thing she's become is cold as a corpse and it's all gone wrong, but it's Amélie, it's Amélie, and Tracer feels a mushroom cloud of old desire and sadness blooming in her chest.

 

And then, her communicator crackles. "Tracer?" Winston's voice says, on the other end. "Tracer, do you copy? I lost my communicator, and I didn't notice. I'm using my backup comm now. Reaper has fled the field."

 

Tracer freezes, and Widowmaker must notice, because she breaks the kiss quietly and watches Tracer's face closely. "I read you, Winston," Tracer says. She tries not to sound as if she A) has just inhaled poison gas and B) is currently fraternizing with the enemy as much as it is imaginably possible to fraternize with the enemy. "I'm hot on Widowmaker's heels." Widowmaker grins like a predator. Tracer tries not to notice.

 

"Understood," Winston says. "Be careful, Tracer. She's dangerous. Don't let her get the drop on you."

 

Tracer's mouth falls open as the heel of Widowmaker's hand presses roughly against her crotch. Mercifully, she manages to choke back the moan which threatens. Her knees shake as Widowmaker slowly, slowly begins to massage her through her clothes, those yellow eyes never once leaving her face. "You got it." Tracer manages to say it with her voice only quavering a little. "What's your position?"

 

"I'm heading back towards the museum," Winston says. "Where are you? I'll rendezvous and assist you."

 

Tracer grits her teeth. Widowmaker is making pangs of pleasure shoot through the pit of her stomach that makes her toes curl, and the thing Tracer wants least of all in the world right now is Winston rendezvousing with her. "I've looped back around the museum," she lies. "I'm somewhere north of the Grand Plaza now, in the shopping district." It feels bad to trick Winston like this, but at this point she honestly doesn't have a choice.

 

"Right. I'm on my way. Do you—"

 

That's when Widowmaker leans forward and bites Tracer's neck. Tracer gasps, her back arching, and she cuts Winston off: "I've spotted Widowmaker. Gotta go."

 

Winston grunts. "Acknowledged. I'll radio you once I'm close to your position."

 

Tracer raises her hand to her ear, and presses the button on her in-ear communicator which mutes the microphone. Now that Winston can no longer hear her, she moans long and low, hips thrusting against Widowmaker's hand. "Lying to your allies for my sake," Widowmaker hisses, soothing the flesh she just bit with cold kisses. "You must really like me, _chérie."_

 

Tracer groans. "You have no idea, love."

 

Widowmaker smirks. "What happened to 'Amélie?'" She grinds her hand against Tracer in slow circles, the other cupping a breast and thumbing the nipple. "In fact, what happened to 'madame?' I always thought that was quite charming, no matter how sloppy drunk you were that night."

 

Tracer grabs Widowmaker's neck with both hands and kisses her hard to shut her up. Their tongues slip against one another, and the kiss turns messy, so that their lips are shiny with spit when it breaks. Tracer runs her hands over Widowmaker's stomach, down her hips, to that amazing ass. "Christ, love, what are you wearing?" she breathes. "Freedom of movement's one thing…"

 

"It is strange for you to question my attire," Widowmaker mumbles, "when I have made you so wet you're soaking through your clothes."

 

Tracer glances down, and to her horror realizes that Widowmaker is right. The damp spot is painfully obvious against the orange spandex of her jumpsuit. She groans. "I need to get out of these clothes."

 

"Oh, _chérie,_ I thought you'd never ask."

 

Suddenly, Widowmaker's arm loops around Tracer's waist with unexpected strength, and there is a muted hiss of propellant as she fires her grappling hook towards the rooftop above. Tracer's stomach lurches as the two of them go rocketing skyward; at the apex, Widowmaker lets go of her, and Tracer screams and windmills her arms in a moment of sickening weightlessness. Then she falls on her ass on the rooftop, whoofing as the breath is knocked from her. Widowmaker sticks the landing, her feet touching elegantly down on either side of Tracer's prone form.

 

Her feet are hanging off the edge of the roof. "We left our guns," she manages to wheeze. She wonders how much more punishment she's going to have to endure today. She figures it's going to be worth it, either way.

 

Widowmaker doesn't respond. Instead, she drops to her knees so she's straddling Tracer. A shiver runs up Tracer's spine. In this position, Widowmaker's breasts almost obscure her face. Tracer runs her hands up back, tugging at the sheer material of Widowmaker's suit.

 

Widowmaker seems to notice her insistence. With a grin, she reaches over with her right hand and removes the armor pad on her left shoulder. She tosses it away. Then, she reaches up to her neck and unfastens the clasps of her suit. Tracer watches breathless as Widowmaker peels the suit off, with excruciating slowness, until her shoulders and breasts are exposed to the warm air.

 

"Will the ape disturb us?"

 

Tracer can't take her eyes off Widowmaker's body. She shakes her head fervently, and lifts her hand to unmute the comm's microphone. "Winston, do you copy? I've lost her." She can't remember ever being this aroused, and she makes no attempt to hide her heavy breathing. Let Winston believe she's winded from the chase. "I'll meet you at the rendezvous point."

 

Winston sounds disappointed when he responds. "I copy. You go on ahead. I'm going to head back to the museum and make sure everything's all right there."

 

Even through the haze of arousal, this sets off alarm bells in Tracer's head. "Just don't let 'em pin the blame on you for this, big guy."

 

Winston chuckles. "I'm used to being called a criminal, Tracer. At this point it's practically comforting. Winston out."

 

Tracer mutes the microphone again. Winston will be all right, she knows – he's always all right. That's good, because she doesn't want to have to worry about him right now. She wants to devote all her attention to the half-naked enemy agent before her.

 

Widowmaker tangles her hand in Tracer's hair, and Tracer gasps as her face is pressed up against the soft, cool flesh of Widowmaker's chest. Tracer wonders why come she's still cold, even in the sweltering Numbani noon. She kisses every inch of flesh she can reach – the flat plane between Widowmaker's breasts, to the curve of her left, the soft underside, the dark blue nipple. Widowmaker makes little sounds of approval, and when Tracer bites down on the nipple, she throws her head back and gasps and moans in pleasure.

 

"Ah, _chérie…"_ Widowmaker mumbles as Tracer rakes her nails down her exposed back, hands trailing down to cup and squeeze her ass. "Tell me what you want me to do to you."

 

Tracer lets Widowmaker's nipple pop wetly from her mouth. She looks up into Widowmaker's yellow eyes. She's out of breath, but somehow she manages to whisper: "I want you to fuck me."

 

"Oh," Widowmaker tuts, "so presumptuous, _fillette._ Respect your elders."

 

Tracer grits her teeth and digs her fingers into the soft flesh of Widowmaker's behind and forces herself to say, "I—I want you to fuck me, _madame."_

 

Widowmaker's blue lips curl into a grin, and she runs her thumb over Tracer's glistening bottom lip. "Do you merely want it, or do you _need_ it, _chérie?_ Let me hear you beg for it. Convince me."

 

Tracer groans in frustration, pressing her face to Widowmaker's chest again and leaving wet trails along the pale blue skin with her tongue. When she doesn't speak, Widowmaker's fingers curl roughly around her throat, forcing her head back, thumb putting pressure on her larynx.

 

_"Beg."_

 

Tracer draws a shaky breath. "Please… fuck me. I want it so bad." She hears how lame it sounds, and she swallows her pride and tries again. "I _need_ it! Please, Amélie, fuck me. I'm going to lose my mind if you don't fuck me! _Please,_ madame Lacroix!"

 

Widowmaker throws her head back and laughs heartily. "Ah, _chérie,_ never have I met a fly who was so happy in the spider's web."

 

With that, she gets into a crouch, roughly ripping off Tracer's bomber jacket and tossing it to the side. Her goggles soon follow. Fingers shaking, Tracer guides Widowmaker through the steps of removing her jumpsuit without dislodging the chronal harness. Soon enough, Tracer is exposed, splay-legged before Widowmaker in only her harness and her soaked panties.

 

Widowmaker maneuvers her, makes her lie back – Tracer gasps when she feels the edge of the roof against her shoulder blades, her shoulders and head hanging over the chasm. Gravity sucks greedily at her. Far below her is the alley floor. Her guns still lie discarded in the doorway, down there – and while the chronal accelerator itself has controls as well, and if Tracer did tumble over the edge she could easily rewind and save herself, the illusion of danger still sends a sick thrill through her stomach.

 

Tracer gasps as she feels Widowmaker's chilly hands on the insides of her thighs. Smooth fingertips gently trace vulnerable flesh, and Tracer buckers her hips uselessly. She's desperate to be pleasured, to have her panties ripped off and feel Widowmaker's fingers inside her, but the Talon operative does things at her own pace. All Tracer can do is buckle up and enjoy the ride.

 

She moans throatily when Widowmaker's fingers begin rubbing up and down her panty-clad crotch, in slow, vertical strokes. It turns into a moan of disappointment when the fingers leave her with one last, lingering touch.

 

Tracer lifts her head and looks up at Widowmaker, who meets her gaze. "S-stop teasing me, love – a girl can only take so much."

 

Widowmaker grins. "Touch yourself for me."

 

"W-what?"

 

Slowly, Widowmaker stands to her full height, towering over Tracer's slight form. Tracer thinks she looks like a goddess, with her pale blue shoulders exposed to the African sun, with her suit clinging to the curve of her hips. Widowmaker removes her helm; it goes the way of her shoulder pad. Then, she removes her hair-tie and shakes her long, luxurious hair out. Tracer's breath hitches. "Touch yourself for me, _fillette._ Touch yourself and tell me how beautiful I am."

 

Tracer grits her teeth – but she is past the point of questioning whether Widowmaker is serious or not. Part of being an effective agent is fast learning, and Tracer has learned that it is a better idea to just do as she is told.

 

She sticks a hand down her panties and curls two fingers up into her soaking cunt.

 

The pleasure is so immediate that she can't stop herself from moaning out loud. She is desperate to get off, and she starts pounding herself fervently, looking up at the breathtaking sight above her.

 

Widowmaker gyrates slowly, to unheard music. A tiny smile plays on her lips. Her yellow eyes never leave Tracer's face, gauging the effectiveness of her every move. Blue-skinned hands trail up her flat stomach, to her exposed breasts, cupping them and squeezing them together. Then back down, towards her crotch, radiating outwards over thighs that spread wide to give Tracer a tantalizing view.

 

It's all theatrics, a stripper-show, meant only to entice, and Tracer hates that it's working so well.

 

"Come now, _chérie,_ speak to me," Widowmaker says in her seductive alto. "Make me feel appreciated. _Worship_ me."

 

"Y-yeah," Tracer breathes. She couldn't have taken her eyes off of Widowmaker even if she'd wanted to. "You're so beautiful, Amélie. You, God, you don't know what you're doing to me. You're perfect." The sound of her sloppy masturbation mingles with her gasping breaths.

 

"Pace yourself, little girl," Widowmaker says. "You won't last a minute like this." Tracer hates how cool and collected she sounds. She wants to reduce Widowmaker to the kind of panting, horny mess that Tracer herself is right now.

 

"I don't care," Tracer gasps, truthfully. "I need to cum."

 

"Then" – Widowmaker says, and crouches down; Tracer's groan is almost anguished at the sight of the fabric of Widowmaker's suit clinging tight to her crotch, so close – "let me bring you the last of the way."

 

She grabs Tracer by the wrist, and Tracer reluctantly allows her fingers to slip from her aching pussy. Widowmaker helps her to her feet, and at this point Tracer is putty in her hands, desperate for release. Widowmaker kneels before her, and Tracer gasps as she pulls her panties down.

 

"Turn around. Spread your legs." Tracer's obedience is nigh-automatic at this point. She turns to face the edge of the roof and stands with her feet planted wide apart. She whimpers as she feels Widowmaker's soft curves press against her from behind, and the whimper turns into a long, hungry moan as Widowmaker's fingers finally slip between her lips, rubbing slow circles around her clit.

 

"Lean forward." Widowmaker puts her free hand on the back of Tracer's head and pushes it forward. Tracer's breath catches as the wall of the opposite building gives way to the floor of the alley below. She stands bent forward, ready to pitch forward into the abyss. She's too far gone to care.

 

Widowmaker hums in her ear, and her free hand slips coolly underneath Tracer's ass and assails her from behind. Tracer stiffens and moans helplessly as two fingers curl into her. Widowmaker is using both hands to work her over, one from behind and one from the front, and all Tracer can do is helplessly stare down at the street far below while it feels like fireworks are going off in the pit of her stomach.

 

It doesn't even take a minute before Tracer is ready to cum.

 

"So danger arouses you?" Widowmaker purrs in her ear. "You are an Overwatch agent through and through, _fillette."_

"Shut up," Tracer growls through gritted teeth. She's on the edge in more ways than one – she feels like she's going to explode. She's up on the tips of her toes, every muscle in her legs tensed to the breaking point, leaning out over a seven-story drop – her life is in Widowmaker's hands, and yes, it turns her on, it turns her on more than anything she's ever experienced before.

 

For a wonder, Widowmaker actually shuts her trap. She must recognize, from Tracer's body quivering and her moans growing more insistent, that Tracer is about to have the most mind-blowing orgasm in her life. She focuses on her ministrations, fingers of one hand fucking Tracer from behind, the other stroking her clit in merciless little circles.

 

"Ah—ah—Amélie—"

 

Tracer's world explodes. Where before gravity weighed heavy on her, now she becomes weightless – she can't see because stars are exploding inside her eyes, and for all she knows she could be sailing to her death below right now, her orgasm just a final kindness before Widowmaker kills her. She doesn't care.

 

Her fingertips and toes disintegrate and turns to light, or static on a TV screen. The only part of her body she can feel with perfect clarity is her pussy, and Widowmaker's fingers all over and inside it. Soaked slick with Tracer's juices, Widowmaker guides her through the orgasm, drawing it out expertly, drawing every iota of pleasure until when Tracer comes down she feels like a deflated balloon.

 

She comes to and realizes she's still on the edge of the roof, and of course she is, or Widowmaker's fingers would have left her when she fell. She has no strength in her legs, and she collapses backwards, and Widowmaker gently lets her down until she's flat on her back, still quivering from the aftershocks.

 

Tracer thinks it's a wonder she didn't pass out from that. She thinks the danger might not be past yet. Her mind feels like galaxies, like huge swirling arms of light. She wants nothing more than to be carried away on those arms and into the blackness of space, but there is something she needs to do.

 

Finally, she manages to sit up. "I want—" Tracer breaks off, drawing a whooping breath. After her orgasm, her lungs feel like they're going to explode, like she's been underwater for five minutes. "I want to make you cum too."

 

 _"Non, chérie,"_ Widowmaker says. She grabs Tracer's hand and places it on her left breast; Tracer cups the soft flesh. "Do you feel that? The spider's heart does not beat."

 

If Tracer didn't know better, she'd say there was a hint of sadness in Widowmaker's voice.

 

"But—"

 

"Besides," Widowmaker says, cutting her off, "I do not think we have the time. We both have things to do." She flashes a teasing grin. "Perhaps next time our missions coincide."

 

 

Tracer ranges around the rooftop on shaky legs. She steps into her panties and shrugs on her jacket. Widowmaker stretches out on the concrete, on her belly like a sun-bather, her face hidden in the crook of her arm. Tracer sits tailor-fashion beside her.

 

Widowmaker looks less like a spider now and more like a cat, stretching languid on the sun-warmed roof. She almost seems to be enjoying the sunlight. "Tell me one thing, love," Tracer asks, running her hand over Widowmaker's shoulderblades, the smooth curve of her back, her ass.

 

"Ask away, _chérie,"_ Widowmaker says, her voice muffled.

 

"You jeopardized a mission for this. Was it really worth it? Was I? Alerting Overwatch cost you the gauntlet."

 

"Oh, _chérie."_ There is a measure of pity in Widowmaker's voice. She lifts her face and looks over her shoulder at Tracer. "Oh, and you were doing so well. What makes you think I sacrificed the objective for this?"

 

"What do you mean?" Tracer asks.

 

"Use your analytical mind, Sherlock Holmes."

 

A pang of uncertainty amplifies her annoyance, and Tracer digs her nails into the soft flesh where Widowmaker's shoulder joins her neck. Widowmaker hisses in pain. "No. Tell me."

 

Widowmaker sighs, and rolls over. Despite herself, Tracer can't help but ogle the exquisite way her body twists as she does so. "Reaper and I were the extraction team," Widowmaker says, "and someone else stood for the distractions. The plaza. The bank."

 

Yes – it's so obvious, Tracer can't believe she didn't see it until now. "Who set the charges?" she breathes.

 

"We have… outsourced," Widowmaker says.

 

 _"Mercenaries?"_ It's almost indignant – in Tracer's mind, OVERWATCH VS. TALON has become emblematic, neon letters twelve feet tall, a clash of the titans; bringing in hired guns seems like a heinous breach of some unspoken rule.

 

Widowmaker doesn't respond, merely grins. She puts her hand on Tracer's neck and pulls her in for a long, slow kiss. Tracer tries to struggle against Widowmaker's grip, but as soon as their lips touch she melts into it. _"Je vous remercie,"_ Widowmaker says, after the kiss. "I needed this." She seems to reconsider. "No, that is untrue. But I have wanted it for a long time."

 

"But—" Tracer manages. Widowmaker stands up, and Tracer's gaze follows her. Her mind is racing. "The gauntlet—"

 

Widowmaker nods. She goes about collecting her discarded gear. Tracer gets to her feet. "That is the problem with you heroes," Widowmaker says, but without much rancor. "You refuse to understand deception. You shy away from it, even when doing so costs you the victory."

 

Tracer is about to respond, when there's a crackle in her ear as the communicator comes to life. Winston sounds rattled. "Tracer, we've got a problem!"

 

Tracer raises her hand to her ear and unmutes the microphone again. "Report."

 

"I'm at the museum. Reaper and Widowmaker were not the only Talon operatives in play," Winston says. "I repeat, Reaper and Widowmaker are not alone. There are two others. The gauntlet's gone!"

 

"Shit!" Tracer runs to the edge of the roof. Past a twelve-story hotel, she can just barely glimpse the curved dome of the Numbani Heritage Museum's glass ceiling, its silhouette now ruined by the twisted hole Winston left when he crashed through it earlier. Plumes of smoke are rising out of the hole. "Winston, are you all right?"

 

"I'm fine," Winston said. "I'm on the retreat. I don't think they're following me. I'm en route to the rendezvous point now."

 

Tracer turns to Widowmaker, fuming. _"What the hell?"_ she shouts, unable to articulate further.

 

Widowmaker sighs. "Must I really spell everything out for you, _chérie?_ The extraction team was the distraction. The distraction was the true extraction team."

 

Suddenly, there is a faint pop – it sounds like a party favor, but Tracer's trained ears recognize it as ordinance exploding at a distance. Fresh smoke billows from the direction of the museum; _something_ is catapulted into the air from the blast.

 

With alarm, Tracer realizes that it's heading straight for them.

 

She backs away, expecting a dislodged piece of the museum's architecture to smash into the rooftop. The shape is up against the blazing sun and difficult to make out. As it comes closer, it resolves itself into the figure of… a man.

 

A dishevelled, soot-stained man, his blonde hair singed away in tufts on his head. He has a bionic peg-leg, and he leads with it when he lands; it seems to absorb most of the shock, though his momentum still sends him tumbling across the roof, squeaking, rolled up into a ball. As he springs to his feet, Tracer can see that he's cradling Doomfist's gauntlet.

 

"Oi!" he shouts. "I got the thing!"

 

Tracer's gaze flickers between this strange apparition, and Widowmaker, who has calmly adjusted her clothes and looks as presentable as ever. "Very good, Fawkes. Oh, _chérie,_ this is Fawkes, our… hired talent."

 

Fawkes snaps into a mock salute. "Junkrat, at yer service! No job too big, no score to small! Hey – why's she not wearin' any pants?"

 

Tracer looks down, her face flushing red with mortification as she realizes she's wearing only her panties and her bomber jacket. Her jumpsuit is in a crumpled heap at Widowmaker's feet. Something else is gnawing at her, though. She recognizes this guy. "Oi, I know you," she says, as it hits her. "You were on TV! You're a wanted man!"

 

"That's right," Fawkes says, lifting his chin. He looks genuinely proud to be recognized. "Everybody wants a piece of _this._ 'Cept the two of you, seems like. I'm guessin' you bat for a team I ain't on."

 

"Fawkes," Widowmaker says, warningly.

 

"Oh, no disrespect." Fawkes waves his free hand, the one that's not holding onto Doomfist's gauntlet. "I ain't prejudiced. Well, not against no sexualities, anyhow. Matter o' fact, I support it! Enemy agents canoodlin' all clandestine? That's _bound_ to cause mayhem down the road!"

 

 _"Enough_ banter," Widowmaker declares, and takes a step towards him. "Give me the gauntlet, Fawkes."

 

Fawkes purses his lips, mock pensive. "Now, see, about that," he says. "I been thinkin'. And, see, it seems to me – Doomfist's glove, like, his actual glove, the actual glove he used for his Doomfistin' – 'f I can fence that, an' I can, it's gonna be worth more than the fee you're payin' me by 'alf. And since you paid me 'alf the fee in advance, that's gonna add up to a pretty penny."

 

 _"Fawkes!"_ Widowmaker sounds angry – but Tracer looks at her, and knows they're both thinking the same thing. Seven stories down, on the floor of the alley, are Tracer's guns and Widowmaker's rifle. And Junkrat is _heavily_ armed, by the looks of it.

 

"Now, don't be mad," Fawkes says, with a shit-eating grin that says _please be mad._ "It's nothin' pers'nal. You just got caught in a little trap that's called the illusion o' order. At the end o' the day, chaos is the natural way of things. That's why mayhem always wins." Lazily, he produces a fearsome-looking domed metal thing which Tracer recognizes as a home-made concussion mine, and slaps it down onto the ground. "Aw, listen to me waxin' all philosophical. Didn't mean to take up your time, ladies." He produces a detonator, seemingly from nowhere.

 

Then, a thought seems to strike him, and he turns to Tracer. "Oh, say hi to yer pal from me, will ya? I ain't ever blown up a talkin' monkey in me life!"

 

He shoots them both a dashing grin.

 

"Ta!"

 

And before either of them can react, Junkrat has jumped onto the mine and detonated it, once again sending him flying. His shrill shriek carries on the wind. The mine blows a sizable chunk out of the roof, and the section Widowmaker and Tracer are standing on sags and caves, sending them tumbling down into the living room of a Numbanian family, whose peaceful TV-watching was just interrupted by the ceiling exploding and two women, one of whom is only wearing underwear and a jacket, falling through the hole.

 

Tracer has never been more embarrassed in her life, but one thought gives her solace:

 

At least she won't have to explain this to Talon.


End file.
